There's A Devil Waiting Outside Your Door
by JessWho
Summary: Series 3 Episode 7. I'm Keats personal devil, feeding his mind with smutty thoughts.


A/N: My inspiration Hatefuck by The Bravery, but for people sensibilities I changed the title to There's A Devil Waiting Outside Your Door - Lyrics taken from Loverman by Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds.

This had a direction, but I lost it. I am Keats devil, perched upon his shoulder. Teasing. He didn't just want to send Alex's soul to eternal damnation he want the juicy little thing for himself...

* * *

**Hatefuck**

**by **

**The Bravery**

_"If I put my hands around your wrists_  
_Would you fight them?_  
_If I put my fingers in your mouth_  
_Would you bite them?_  
_So many things that I would do_  
_If I had my way with you."_

* * *

Imagine bundling her wrists into one hand before she can process the thought of pulling away, refusing you.

You must be sick of it; her whorish ways.  
Those fleeting looks. Her smiles. The soft flirtation in her voice.  
She wants it. Wants you.

You would squeeze her breasts, but the flexing of your fingers around the ripe swell would be brief. There is so much of her you have yet to explore. Why limit yourself when you can slide your hands over all her other sensual curves.

She would not admit it, but the gusset of her wickedly red knickers would be damp with arousal before you even touch her there.  
But when you do it will be without hesitation and a startled moan would give her game away.

The starkness of red lace against alabaster skin would be the most tempting contrast you have ever seen. You would slip your fingers under the edge, tracing around to her inner thigh.  
Soft silky skin against your finger tips and lace against the back of your hand.

She would be hotter than hell, burning like a sun around your fingers.  
Her nails digging into your back as she twists and screams into the night air.

Almost naked and breathless she cannot keep secrets from you.  
She wants it. Wants you.

You would put your fingers into her mouth, slide your wet fingers over her tongue so she could taste herself.  
She would bite you. Hard. Not enough to break skin and shed blood, but enough to hurt.

Striking her across the face would be enough to leave her mouth slackened so you could extract your fingers.  
You would look from the neat little tooth marks to her stunned face and call her a, "Bad girl."

Lust would burn brightly in her eyes, but beneath the flecks of hazel she would be disgusted with herself.  
She is the daughter of sinners after all.

While she is paralysed by the shock of your palm connecting with the apple of her cheek you would move down her body.  
You would hook your fingers into her underwear and pull, hard so the seams protest. Once they are off you would throw the scrap of lace over your shoulder because you could.

Her body would be open to your full scrutiny, not that there would be anything to scrutinize.  
Her body is a wondrous thing. Every freckle a sin. Every scar a story. The ink at her ankle an emblem of youthful rebellion.

As you crawl back up her body she would raise her legs, bending them at the knee so you would think she is welcoming you.  
Simply wants it. Wants you.

Her legs would be raised to kick out at you.  
A perfect foot pressing into the hollow of you hip and before you could think pass the fog of lust she would have over balanced you.

With the tables turned and you on your back she would straddle you.  
Her hair would fall over her face as she leans forward to capture your wrists, her breasts brushing your bare chest.

She is a temptress. A woodland nymph. She is everything holy, everything you should despise.  
But she to is the snake in Eden. She wants you to take the apple and bite into it.  
She would be enough to send any normal man to hell.

She would maintain her position above you and not just because you would be happy to have her there.  
She would rub herself against you and surprise herself with a soft moan.

The strain in her body, the ache it would cause her to stop would be visible to you.  
She would wait with her chest hovering over you. She would take you slender, but by no means weak wrists in one hand and with the other explore.

Fingers dipping into the crease of your elbow.  
A scratch like a caress on your sensitive underarm, it would make your hips buck and make her smile.  
She would repeat the gesture one more time to elicit the same bodily reaction from you, but would move on before you could really begin to enjoy the sensation and start on your face.

Her fingers would smooth over your brow, trace the odd shape of your nose. Pretend you are a lover she would remember.  
She would caress your unstubbled jaw as she presses her thumb to your lower lip, feeling its plumpness.

She would be quicker then you, taking her thumb away before your naughty teeth could catch her.  
She would smirk at the snap of your teeth, but refrain from calling you a 'Bad boy' instead just tap you on the chin and slid her hand down your neck to your chest.

Your eyes would lower, but not close completely as she forces you to contemplate all the other things her hand could so. Caress, pull, surround, twist.  
She would make you gasp, mutter obscenities as she used her thumb and forefinger to tug and twist your nipple. The sharpness only just tolerable.

Her cheek would rub against your other nipple, like a cat making its claim over you. She would apply her lips and warm tongue to it and tenderly lick and suck at it so she could hold you captured between a bewitched moan at her gentleness and the gasp created by her pinching.

She would take in a long drag of air through her nose, scenting your skin.  
Breathing deep the clinging cigarette smoke.

She would stop. Body suspended, no longer animated by lust.  
She would fight you with teeth and nails to claw herself away from you. It is not you she wants.

Such a pretty thing and not stupid either, you should know that she is not like the others you have laid claim to.  
She gets what she wants. She does not want you.  
Even if she did it would be for her own gain. It would be you begging for more.

Foolish man.  
She knows you want it. Want her.  
Yet she has gone to "him" and you, you foolish, foolish man encouraged her.

You have to stop her before it is too late.  
Make her lingering doubt spread, make her not trust "him".  
Time it perfectly, Jimmy boy and you can have them both. Whether they want it, want you or not.

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A/N: ...But he never got her. I almost feel sorry for Keats, almost.


End file.
